


Until Forever Comes, You'll Find Us Chasing the Sun

by imagined_melody



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Clubbing, Established Relationship, M/M, Original Character(s), Porn, Public Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_melody/pseuds/imagined_melody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian convinces Mickey to go clubbing with him. While there, they get up to no good with one another- and inadvertently make some new friends along the way. (Written for Gallavich Week Day 5, for the "sexy times" theme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Forever Comes, You'll Find Us Chasing the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, Gallavich Week this year is getting the weirdest fic out of me. I did not write all 5000 words of this today; in fact, I'd be surprised if more than 500 of it is new from today. I've had this fic with these two original characters sitting on my computer forever, and I honestly never thought I'd let it see the light of day. But reading it while thinking about the "sexy times" theme for today's Gallavich Week, I finally just went, _oh, what the hell._
> 
> There, um, can be more of the OCs if you want. I may or may not have more stuff written with them. They are literally not based on anyone in particular, so headcanons for them would be appreciated.
> 
> Title is from "Chasing the Sun" by the Wanted- which, though not mentioned, is meant to be the song Ian and Mickey are dancing to at the beginning of the story.

It was surreal, the two of them standing outside a gay club, where so many of their interactions had taken place at the more “official” beginning of their relationship (the part that wasn’t three years of off-and-on hookups and mixed signals and fear). They were surrounded by extremely fit gay men, all hardly more than teenagers by the looks of things, wearing form-fitting clothes and seeming to be overly flirtatious. Ian turned to Mickey, and nearly burst out laughing at the look of supreme discomfort on his face; Mickey clearly didn’t know what to do with all of these flamboyant men, so different from his own reticent, closeted experience. He scowled when Ian laughed at him, but allowed the younger man to take his hand, curling their fingers together and guiding him into the club.

It was loud, and dark, and crowded, and smelled potently of sweat and alcohol. Ian couldn’t exactly call it a pleasant atmosphere, but it did have a certain allure to it-- the feeling that you were there for one purpose, and one purpose only: to attract another person. Everything was calibrated to achieve that one goal. 

They found themselves standing on the edge of a dance floor full of gyrating young men, many of whom had passed an approving glance over either Ian or Mickey as they entered. Both of them knew they probably couldn’t look more out of place, two South Side boys surrounded by perfectly put-together men in their teens and twenties. But they were both reasonably attractive regardless of background, and it was clear that their looks were just as appreciated as those of the more generic pretty boys that populated the majority of the place. Mickey caught Ian’s eye wandering to a couple of the more attractive specimens that walked by, but found that he felt no jealousy now that it wasn’t Ian in the skimpy outfits, showing off his body for tips. Instead he snaked a hand boldly under Ian’s jacket, using the fabric to hide it as he slipped his hand below the waistband of his jeans to grab his ass quickly. Ian jumped slightly and laughed in surprise, and Mickey noticed that desire was mixed with the humor in his eyes when he turned to face him.

Ian stopped to get them each a drink first, sticking with beer rather than the fancier mixed drinks that neither of them had ever really cared for. The alcohol gave Mickey’s senses a pleasant buzz, but not enough to inhibit his alertness. There was something awfully stimulating about being in a place like this, he had to admit. The movement of the partygoers dancing on the floor, and the way in which it was clear when they were seducing one another (Mickey felt a jolt of arousal at being in such close proximity with other people trying to get laid), was almost hypnotizing, and Mickey couldn’t take his eyes off the scene in front of him. So when Ian put down his finished beer and gently took Mickey’s hand in his own, the older man allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor, staying on the edge of the throng so they wouldn’t be too crowded in by the press of bodies.

The music was pounding, in their ears and their nerve endings, in the air and through the vibrations of the floor. The energy of it was enough to get even Mickey’s blood flowing a little bit faster, and he was the least comfortable of the two in this situation. It was clearly motivating to the scores of young men around them, too; the dance floor was a mass of bodies in motion. Mickey quickly spared a worry for whether they would be hit by a flailing stranger’s limb, but they were able to sidestep to their own small area of the floor, pressed together just enough to be intimate but not so much that it was invasive.

Neither of them was much of a dancer, especially not to the frenetic club beats that pulsed through the room now. But then again, the music did not necessarily suggest dancing. For them, it thrummed with contained sexual energy, and that they understood. As the heavy bass line kicked in fully, they moved incrementally to the rhythm of the song, bodies fitted together to keep close from the crush of people around them. The air smelled of alcohol and a musky, pheremone-laden scent, heady and intoxicating and strange. Ian could not smell Mickey in that mixture, nor could Mickey smell Ian-- but the smell of sex in general was enough of a turn-on that as they moved slowly against one another, each man felt the other hardening against him.

Mickey had never been one for public exhibitionism. Even after all this time, he still had trouble holding Ian’s hand around strangers; they hardly kissed outside of their home even among friends, and public displays of affection were usually more awkward for him than natural. He had certainly never been one to do anything sexy in public (aside from the times they’d fucked in the Kash-and-Grab, and more than once he’d been made to regret that particular decision). But the atmosphere in this room was dizzying, and it was ramping his senses up to high gear. He couldn’t help wrapping his hands around Ian’s hips and moving against him more purposefully, rocking his hips down in a deliberate motion to bring them together with greater friction. Ian’s mouth fell open, and though it was almost painfully loud in the room, Mickey could hear the small strained sound that passed his partner’s lips. It was one with which he was intimately familiar, so it was easy to pick out of the din.

The feel of Ian swelled to half-hardness against him was such a powerfully intimate sensation. Part of him wanted to shy away, painfully aware of the fact that they were in public, surrounded by people; but another part was pulled inexorably towards his partner’s body, attracted to the familiar sensation of the man’s shape (especially when aroused). He could feel the craving for contact with Ian beginning inside him, an almost gnawing pull in his lower stomach and his groin and his heart. He frantically ran his hands up to Ian’s head, grabbing him and connecting their lips in a kiss suffused with heat. Ian returned it, his own hands scrambling to fist in Mickey’s shirt and keep him close.

He could feel the beat throbbing in his nerves, the energy radiating from Ian a clear indicator that the other man felt the same pulse in his own body. They could not seem to decide how best to kiss; sometimes they would attack each other with near-desperate eagerness, and sometimes it would be a slower thing, a hungry but languid slide of lips against one another. The music switched to another song, one Mickey thought he’d heard on the radio when it was slow in the Alibi and Kev would crank up music to kill the quiet. It started out soft, the beat subdued but hypnotizing; Mickey felt his world narrow to his body on Ian’s, letting all the love and lust and hope he felt for the man consume him.

Ian felt him let go, he knew; as the beat escalated, strangers moving and jumping around them, Ian pulled him fiercely against his own body, taking everything that Mickey was giving-- everything that he was letting out--and absorbing it into his own being. It made Mickey feel short of breath, wild and strange and incredibly free, like there was nothing he couldn’t do. He made a choked sound into Ian’s mouth at the recognition of it. Ian simply smiled against his lips and accepted that too, sucking on Mickey’s mouth until the mix of heavy breath and strained sound turned into a contented moan.

By now Mickey was in enough of a state that it couldn’t be ignored. He’d never been so turned on in public, and Ian was _grinding_ against him in time with the music, relentless and flushed and utterly sexy. His pupils were blown wide, and he looked at Mickey like he needed him, like Mickey was the answer to everything and if he would just _do something_ , everything would be OK. Ian’s expression was full of desire, but it was also expectant, and Mickey realized that Ian was waiting for him to take the lead. The night had been Ian’s idea, but Mickey was least at ease in it, and Ian wanted him to have control. A rush of gratitude flooded through him, and as the song changed yet again, he curled his fingers around Ian’s and dragged him off the dance floor, searching for a spot where they could be alone (and hoping that the erection he was sporting wasn’t too obvious to their fellow partygoers). 

They eventually stumbled into the vestibule of a little bathroom, and before they could even make it to a semi-private area, like a stall, Mickey was on Ian, walking him back with the pressure of his body until he was pressed against the wall. “Is this how you want it?” he growled into Ian’s mouth, although there was nothing threatening or intimidating about his tone; it was pure lust. “Like this? Against the wall?”

Ian looked like he’d never wanted anything more. “Yeah,” he said, and attacked Mickey’s mouth again. He was just starting to whimper into the kiss, small moans increasing in desperation, when they heard another moan-- one that seemed to come from further away, not from either of them. They pulled apart and looked questioningly at each other, as if to ask, _Did you do that?_ Then it happened again: a small sound from the other side of the restroom.

Mickey went very pale. Ian, on the other hand, blushed a furious shade of red. “Shit,” Mickey said. “We’re not--the only ones in here.”

“Fuck,” Ian said in agreement, running his hand over the short hair on his scalp. A little louder, as if to address the person--or people, he assumed there was more than one even though only a single voice had been heard--in the stall, “Sorry, um, we just—“

“You don’t have to leave,” said a voice; whether it was the one who had moaned a second before or another was unclear. “I’m sure as hell not. You’re in a fucking gay club bathroom, what did you expect—“ He cut himself off with a small gasp, and they didn’t have to be visible for both Ian and Mickey to know that whatever pleasure he had been receiving, momentarily stopped, had now resumed. 

Mickey looked at Ian. Ian crooked an eyebrow at him. Mickey was still hard, but unsure now, uncomfortable with putting his own responses and reactions on display when someone else was within earshot (and potentially eyesight as well). But then Ian leaned forward and took Mickey’s lower lip in his teeth and bit it, nipped at it in what seemed unmistakably a challenge, and at the same time another moan-- lower, this one, definitely a different person than the one who had spoken to them-- emitted from the stall across the room. The sound sent a jolt through Mickey even as he squirmed at the semi-voyeurism of it, and Ian took advantage of that.

“Forget the wall,” he whispered right into Mickey’s ear. “I’m not gonna last that long.” He punctuated this by wrapping his hand around the bulge between Mickey’s legs, fondling him through his clothes. Mickey reacted by immediately unfastening Ian’s jeans, pulling the zip down and pushing them and his underwear off his hips so that his erection sprang free. He started stroking him, desperately horny from the sounds Ian made mingled with the combined moans of the two men nearby, but after a few seconds Ian shook his head and grabbed at him, muttering, “No, you, you too—“ He was trying to get Mickey to take his own erection out too. Mickey hurried to comply, pushing his own pants down and letting out a bitten-off gasp when Ian took him in his hand and started frantically jerking him off.

The man with the deeper voice in the stall chose that moment to come. It was clear that he was doing so even though he did not say anything as a warning to his partner; the escalating cries and the shakiness of his voice betrayed what was happening. He heard something thud against the wall of the bathroom stall-- perhaps the man’s head falling back in pleasure, or his hand coming out for purchase. Ian’s hand sped up even more on Mickey’s cock, and Mickey could do nothing but gasp and shudder, pleasuring Ian more rapidly as well. His orgasm hit him quickly and hard, like a ton of bricks to the chest, and he felt Ian follow right after him, squirming with such sensitivity that Mickey knew the hand he kept moving on him must be making him ache. He didn’t stop, though; Ian fucked to past the point of pleasure, to the edge of pain, was and always had been one of the most beautiful things Mickey had ever seen. 

The other man had come sometime while the two of them were in the throes of their own shared climax, and now the only sounds besides Ian and Mickey’s panting were the more routine sounds of the two men in the bathroom stall cleaning up. They talked to one another under their breath, a soft and easy exchange of dialogue which Mickey barely tuned into as he wiped himself and Ian down with a paper towel and tucked them back in for modesty’s sake, not bothering to completely refasten their jeans-- just pulling everything up enough to be technically decent by the time their fellow patrons emerged. 

And emerge they did, mussed and red-faced and with wicked grins on both their faces. A slightly bigger and more muscular man stepped out first, his shirt wrinkled; he was followed by a smaller man with a friendly face, who was grinning at them and _wiping his mouth with the back of his hand_ \-- and if that wasn’t a clue to what he’d been doing moments before, Mickey didn’t know what was. The smaller man’s hair was hopelessly mussed, as if someone’s fingers had been in it; Mickey suddenly suspected the gasp they’d heard, if this man had in fact been the one administering the blowjob and not the one receiving it, was due to his partner tugging on his hair. He’d honestly not known what to think of the scene they’d stumbled in on-- this could easily be a casual hookup between strangers, or even an encounter between a hooker and a client, for all he knew. But the two men came out holding hands, not in the way new lovers or strangers do, but in the easy and mirrored way of longtime companions.

They both looked at Ian and Mickey-- Ian’s back still pressed up against the wall, his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, Mickey bracketing his body on both sides as though half-shielding and half-holding him-- and smiled with the kind of easy friendliness that you might get from an unfamiliar neighbor at a barbecue, despite the unusual quality of their circumstances a moment before. The smaller one was the more gregarious of the two, though; when Mickey cleared his throat awkwardly and started to apologize again, he said, “Seriously, man, not a problem. You come in the bathrooms in places like this, you expect to find people fucking. No such thing as privacy around here.” He seemed about to say more, but something caught his eye in the mirror. He stared at his reflection and laughed. “Jesus, man, look at my hair,” he said, exchanging a look of fondness and mock-indignation with the man behind him. He tried fruitlessly to smooth it down, but it was hopelessly tousled.

While he did that, the bigger and slightly shyer man extended a hand. “Damien,” he said by way of introducing himself, and Ian-- to whom he had offered his hand first-- took a second to be incredulous that they were exchanging introductions and pleasantries in the men’s room of a gay club after listening to one another have sex. 

“Ian Gallagher. And this is Mickey.” Mickey, if possible, shook Damien’s hand with even more uncertainty.

Damien put a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder; he was still trying to tame his wild mess of hair. “Nice to meet you guys. This one here is Trent.” He met Trent’s eyes in the mirror, and there was a smile in them. “Trent, I think we should head out, babe,” he said in a quieter voice, leaning down to dart a quick peck to his shoulderblade.

Trent scowled as he made a final effort to look presentable, then turned and followed Damien to the door. “Have a nice night!” he called back to Mickey and Ian, still standing dumbfounded in the exact same position against the wall. 

They looked at each other when the bathroom was empty again. “What the fuck,” Mickey said, his forehead crinkling.

“Seem like nice guys,” Ian said with a smile, before patting Mickey on the shoulder decisively. “Come on, big man. Let’s get cleaned up.” He punctuated this with a sloppy kiss to Mickey’s lips, which he was loathe to disconnect from. 

He and Ian looked pretty aggressively fucked out, which Mickey hadn’t really noticed until it was time to make themselves presentable. They did manage to straighten their clothes and get themselves decent, and pretty soon they were back out on the periphery of the dance floor. The spontaneous sex had taken the edge off nicely, so they could just stand in comfortable silence next to one another, drinking a beer each and feeling the pulse of the music echo through their bones. Mickey stepped away to get a second beer, and Ian stood alone at the other end of the counter, watching the gyrating bodies in front of him.

In a couple moments, though, he saw someone familiar approaching-- the young man from the bathroom earlier; Trent was his name. The boy smiled, and it was infectious-- Ian found himself smiling as well, attracted to his friendliness. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Trent returned. He gestured with his head toward Mickey, who looked relaxed but slightly out of place among the half-naked men around him. “You and he are cute together,” he commented, the statement a bit forward but not invasive.

Ian smiled a little as he looked at Mickey. “Got an anniversary coming up,” he said, not sure why he was sharing this with Trent, but feeling comfortable in his presence. “Six years this month." They didn't _really_ have an official anniversary, but remembering the month was as close as they got- and Ian knew Mickey counted the years too, though he'd never admit it.

Trent’s expression was incredulous. “Seriously, man?” he said in an impressed voice. “That’s awesome. How old were you when you met?” 

Ian thought back. “Just teenagers,” he said. “14 or 15.”

“Sorry,” Trent said in a slightly quieter voice. Ian looked at him, with no clue why he was apologizing. Trent saw his confusion and explained, “Your face just...you looked like that was a bad question. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Ian didn’t realize his emotions showed so plainly on his face, but then again, Mickey was always saying he was an open book. He thought that was only true for Mickey, but maybe it was a bit more universal than that. “No, not a bad question,” he said, shaking his head. “Just not a great time for either of us. Lot happier now.”

Trent reached out and squeezed his arm. “Good,” he said softly, and Ian felt, strangely, that he actually cared-- that their happiness, for some odd reason, meant something to him.

“What about you and, um...” he blushed a little as he struggled to remember Trent’s companion’s name.

“Damien,” Trent supplied, glancing across the room to his friend with a small smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. “It’s OK, you were sort of otherwise occupied when he introduced himself.”

Ian blushed a little deeper, but Trent’s sly grin put him at ease. “Yeah, Damien. How long have you been together?” he asked. “Must be a long time; no one looks like that at someone they’ve just met.”

Trent ducked his head and smiled some more, fondly. “Four years,” he said with unmistakable happiness. “And for what it’s worth, we didn’t start out great either. I know how hard it can be to put that kind of shit behind you.”

Ian gave him a sympathetic wince of a smile. “Sorry to hear that,” he offered.

Trent shrugged. He was looking at the ground; his expression now was a mixture of fondness and a strange absentness, like he was lost in his thoughts. “I mean, it’s fine,” he said, with forced casualness. “We both had issues. He did damage, but I was no angel, believe me.”

“He’s no angel now, either. Take my word for it.” The voice surprised both of them, and they turned to see Damien, who had approached and was now standing next to Trent. Trent’s eyes softened at the sight of him, and Damien smiled at him, eyes crinkling, and kissed him firmly on the temple, pulling him close with an arm around his shoulders. “He regaling you with tales of the old days?”

Ian could feel the slight tension in Damien’s bearing-- it was exactly the same tension he could sense emanating from Mickey when his past was brought up. He said gently, “He was telling me how long you guys’ve been together. Four years, that’s pretty impressive.”

“Says the guy who just told _me_ he and his man have a six-year anniversary coming up,” Trent ribbed, but he looked both pleased and grateful at Ian for defusing the situation somewhat.

Mickey chose that moment to walk back up. “What’re we talking about?” he said, handing Ian his beer and nudging him lightly in the side.

“You,” Ian said automatically, and Mickey elbowed him this time, making him yelp slightly. 

Damien greeted him with a friendly grin. “Trent just wanted to come say hi to you guys properly. And maybe say sorry for the bathroom thing, if it bothered you.”

“Just in case,” Trent chimed in, adding, “Although you didn’t seem too upset at the time, to be honest.”

“We’re really not creepy sex fiends,” Damien finished, and Trent snorted under his breath. Damien poked him in the side. “We’re _not_ ,” he said more softly, tenderness evident in his voice.

Ian chuckled. “No problem, man,” he said. 

They watched the mass of people in the club while they drank their beers, and then Damien and Trent managed to coerce them into getting back onto the dance floor. Now that they were no longer propelled by the sense of risk mixed with arousal that had so driven them before, they felt a bit more awkward, neither of them particularly good dancers. But they fell into a rhythm, matching one another’s movements in a way that spoke to the familiarity they had with each other. When Trent and Damien cut in, effecting a partner switch, Ian and Mickey went with that too, more easily than expected. There was something already intimate about their short knowledge of these two. It did not feel like being intercepted by strangers. 

(Not that Mickey _danced_ with Trent, per se—he was nowhere near that uninhibited, even on his best days. But he merely rolled his eyes and waved his hands and heckled at Trent as the other boy gyrated wantonly around him with a shit-eating grin on his face, and Ian knew him well enough to see that this was as close to comfortable with the situation as he was likely to get.)

When the party started getting wilder and the clubbers more intoxicated, the four of them took that as their cue to leave. Trent and Damien, it seemed, often stayed until the wee hours of the morning, but they admitted it was less fun when everyone’s inhibitions were so low that they were wasted and belligerent. Neither one of them was a heavy enough drinker to participate in that mindset. So they parted ways outside the club, and Trent slipped Ian his phone number in between rounds of _Nice to meet you_ and _See you again soon, maybe_. “Just to make sure we _do_ see you again,” he winked as he handed it over, and Ian smiled; it was obvious he and Mickey weren’t people who did this sort of thing regularly, and probably wouldn’t return to the club. But he had to admit, he wanted to see more of this friendly couple.

When Ian and Mickey got into their car, the first thing Mickey did was shake his head and chuckle warmly. “Damn,” he said after a moment. “Think we just met us, but more fun.”

Ian, feeling loose from the beer, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He had glitter on his hair and skin, and a bit of it shook off at the movement. “You’re fun too,” he teased, and yelped when Mickey pinched him in the side, muttering _I’ll show you fun_ in a low voice. “You OK to drive?” he asked as he pulled away.

Mickey made an affirmative _mm-hmm_ sound. “Hold my drink better than you,” he reminded Ian, “and I had fewer than you did anyway.”

They were on the highway in minutes, and that was about as much time as it took Ian, exhausted and buzzed from the alcohol and the high of adrenaline from the evening, to fall asleep against the window. Mickey glanced over long enough to notice, and felt that strange fondness flood through him at the sight of the man. Sometimes he still saw the shaggy-haired, quiet-voiced youth from their earliest days together when he looked at Ian, before the military and the bipolar episodes and everything that had happened between them since then. He was a different man now, but in some ways the same person deep down, after all. Mickey didn’t love him any less. In fact, with all the progress they’d made together, he could only love Ian more.

They got home and Mickey nudged Ian until he woke, the two of them stumbling blearily into the house. Despite the beers he’d had, Ian was actually closer to sober than drunk, but Mickey made him drink some water anyway (downing part of a bottle himself, just in case a hangover spontaneously decided to present itself). They shucked their clothes onto the floor, Ian all slow limbs and tired eyes, and climbed into bed. When they were lying there with the covers pulled around them, Ian murmured, “Liked tonight.”

Mickey kissed him on the forehead. “Yeah?”

Ian grunted out a sound that resembled the affirmative and answered in a sleepy voice, “Know you hate this kind of stuff. Just wanted to go dancing, let off some steam. Y’know?”

What Mickey knew, after six years with Ian, was that sometimes it was better to go with his partner’s impulses—to give them a chance, rather than gripe endlessly and then stay at home alternately worrying about Ian and resenting his enthusiasm. Ian had a tendency to push his buttons, but sometimes his efforts to pull Mickey out of his comfort zone weren’t totally terrible. And in this case… “Guess it wasn’t all bad.”

“Aww, you liked it,” Ian muttered lazily into Mickey’s chest; Mickey pinched him, and he yelped, but pulled Mickey closer anyway. “Go to sleep, m’tired.”

When Mickey did go to sleep, it was with a contented smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Another fun fact: in my mind, when Ian/Mickey and Trent/Damien partner-switch on the dance floor, they are dancing to "Starships" by Nicki Minaj.
> 
> P.S. My tumblr is imaginedmelody.tumblr.com if you want to find me there!


End file.
